The Romantic Challenge

by Francis Chichester

  I must have blundered heading across wind. I freed the helm, engaged the self-steering and trimmed to run dead downwind. I left the storm-jib alone. Its loss seemed to make no difference to the speed and once again Gipsy Moth was charging downwind at 10 knots. Once I saw the speedometer reading 12.5 knots. Gipsy Moth was now under bare poles but I daresay the fragments of the storm-jib and the flapping pieces of the stays’l would increase the speed. I could think of nothing to do about it. I think the wind was not very great; I never saw the indicator over 60 knots; even with Gipsy Moth’s own speed added, the wind did not, I think, exceed 70 knots except in gusts. The seas were the danger; they were terrific. During the day I had seen them like Cape Horn stuff, but steeper and shorter, with more frequent breakers. They had looked vicious. If only I could take way off the boat; Gipsy Moth’s own speed through the water caused the danger. What possible ways were there of doing this? It was a waste of time to put out a, sea anchor, the warp would not last ten minutes before it parted due to the snatching load. The same thing applied to streaming warps by themselves. I had been through all that. I could not think of anything.

  I went below and lay down in my life harness, which I fastened round the steel knee bracing the deck beam to the mizen mast chainplate beside my bunk. I hadn’t been lying there long before I became aware that the water in the bilges was increasing fast. The floorboards had been floated free and were knocking against each other. I got up and looked for a leak. There was already about a foot of water in the main cabin. It was dark stuff, like black coffee, impossible to see through. I could not find any inrush of water. The leak must be under water. The violent impact when the yacht landed must have started the bolts holding the 7½ ton iron keel to the wooden keelson or else pulled the keelson away from the frame. There wasn’t a hope of finding a leak in that foot-deep black water.

  I felt depressed and frightened. How many hours before Gipsy Moth sank? I was deeply sad. There was so much in Life. It was dreadful for death to tear me away from all the people I loved. But it looked as if this was it. There could not be a rougher sea or a rougher night for trying to launch the rubber dinghy from the foredeck. It would be blown away at once. Even if not, how could I get into it, or get water and provisions aboard? Why, I shouldn’t even be able to keep them on the deck of the yacht. For God’s sake, where is the brandy? A half glass would be like a comforting friend. I craved that warm glow, that dulling of fear, that damn all, who cares. But I turned it down; only clear thinking and good judgment would give me a chance here—and I had forgotten that the galley bottle was in fragments.

  ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ I fossicked out two plastic bags and a spinnaker bag and began filling them with any suitable food handy. I worked my way through the main cabin, treading on the edge of the settee bunk which was now being washed by the water, swishing from side to side. Thanks to Sheila’s storage plan, some most suitable foods were to hand—dried fruits and nuts, peanut butter, biscuits, some rolls of bread and a lot of oranges from Horta, which would give me some liquid if unable to get water. I put aside the 5-litre jar of honey which Peter had got me. If I could get just that on board it would be food enough for months of existence. Water would be the big problem. All the 20-litre jerricans and 5-litre flasks of water were in the forepeak and I doubted whether I could open the hatch in the foredeck to get any of them out from under the pile of bagged sail. There was nothing to be done about that before leaving the ship. After the big knockdown I thought it would be safer to lie on the floor between my bunk and the engine casing, instead of in the bunk. I pulled the heavy wooden ditty-box into the cabin beside the chart table, where it was useful as a stepping-stone to pass over the water to the main cabin settee. It was three to four feet long, and over a foot high. Then I thought ‘to hell with it! I’d rather risk the bunk in a dry sleeping-bag.’ I looked round for somewhere to put the food bags but there was nowhere dry now, except my bunk. I regretted having moved the ditty-box; I could have piled them on top of it. I piled them on the floor beside my bunk. They got wet inside which I think may have been due to condensation.

  ‘Am I being stupid not putting out an SOS?’ I hate asking for help. And it was a ridiculous thing to do; how could any ship rescue me in this stuff? In any case I had been running before the storm for several hundred miles without a fix and couldn’t give an accurate enough position for any ship to find me. On the other hand if I did get into the dinghy, the 400 miles to the nearest land, Portugal, would be a long drift without a sail and I might have no water. I was being stupid; there might be a ship nearby and it might mean the difference between life and death. I went over, to the set. To my surprise it was working. I could hear quite well through the receiver but when I used the transmitter to put out the SOS, the meter indicated no signal passing through the aerial. The mizen topping-lift was twisted round the top insulator on the backstay aerial again.

  I could think of nothing else I could do. I reckoned this was one of the tightest jams I had been in; I was dead beat with sheer fatigue, fear, tension and depression. Only a sleep could give me a chance of a clear brain to think up something to save me. I looked at the water level. I reckoned I had several hours before it reached the level of my bunk. I decided to sleep. To hell with it all! I flopped into my bunk, fell into a deep sleep and did not stir for two or three hours. When I awoke it was daybreak. I felt refreshed and clear-brained. ‘What can I do to help myself?’ I started to review and think. The water level in the cabin seemed about a foot below the level outside, perhaps somewhat less. Was there a chance of its rising no farther as soon as the two levels were the same? I wished I knew the answer. Even if the water continued to rise above the waterline, that is to say if the yacht continued to sink, would there be enough buoyancy forward and aft of the two watertight bulkheads to keep the hull afloat even if the cabin was full up and the decks awash? They had a considerable capacity between them. If so, I should still have a chance of bringing the boat to port, camping meanwhile in the cockpit with my bags of food and sleeping-bag. In any case when the water levels inside and out of the cabin were level, surely the inflow would be slower. Would I not have a chance of keeping the level there with bucket-baling? One thing I was determined on; nothing would make me abandon Gipsy Moth until she sank under me.

  I had one Thermosful of hot water and I mixed up a honey and hot water to get over my queasiness. I think it was also excellent food though I did not feel hungry. After that I had a spoonful of honey at intervals.

  The water was now up to the level of the settee and the noise of its surging to and fro, with the floating floorboards banging from side to side of the cabin, was like the seas breaking on Brighton beach after a storm. It nearly damped out the noise of the storm and deck gear. ‘Of course I must send out an SOS. There might be a ship quite handy, and she might possibly rescue me.’ I worked out what I thought Gipsy Moth had done and in which direction she had sailed since the rough DR position of the previous evening. I jotted down 43½˚N 19½˚W, and logged the time as 0640 GMT. I set about transmitting an SOS. The receiver was working well but no transmitter light came on. I gave it a biff with the palm of my hand and to my surprise it lighted up. I duly put out an SOS. I hoped it went on the air, though the instrument indicated almost no signal passing through the aerial. There was no response. I felt deserted. I was on my own.

  After the knockdown when I had first heard the water in the bilges I had tried the electric pumps. The switches were at the foot of my bunk. They hummed for a while and then I tried the switches separately; only one hum. Then I thought ‘How stupid to waste current on bilge pumps!’ When I was in the cockpit to re-set the helm, I had tried the manual bilge pump. It required a lot of pumping to lift the water from the bilge just to the pump. I had to sit on the edge of the cockpit seat, bent double, head down level with my knees to avoid the sweep of the tiller. The water only spurted out intermittently until I had drawn off a bucketful, and then the pump jammed. I thought o
f opening up the pump to clear it but what was the good of a pump which had jammed after a bucketful? The idea of trying to empty a half full yacht with it was ridiculous and I left it, with a surge of anger at the futility of the thing.

  I was gradually firming up my mind to keep the yacht afloat somehow or other until I got it to land. At first after the knockdown I had hated the idea of losing my life, now I began to hate the idea of losing Gipsy Moth. I got a bucket and staggered along from the chart table to the cockpit with ten buckets of water, which I emptied on to the side deck. In those seas it would have been difficult enough to carry a bucket of water through the boat if fit and fresh; with my damaged thigh and side it was agony. I went back to my bunk, flopped down, and fell asleep for a few minutes. When my kidney area had such a bang I thought the kidney must have been bust or so badly damaged that it wouldn’t last more than a few hours; but I was still alive. Then I had thought that Gipsy Moth would be foundering in a few hours and that that would be the end of the road for me; but Gipsy Moth was still afloat and I was still alive. So I got up and dumped another batch of bucketfuls into the cockpit, to let it run away through the drainholes. With each bucket I carried I modified the drill in some small way. Bending my body a little forward and to the side eased the pain in my back; there was an important handhold above the chart table seat and the engine casing gave support to my right thigh when I moved my left leg forward, and so on. I kept a tally, making a cross for each bucket, and always aimed at a definite number, holding out for reward a flop down and a short rest on completing the batch. Then I would relax completely and often slept for a few seconds.

  I think it was after the thirtieth bucket that I noticed a hole in the deck inboard of the toerail. It was on the lee side and was either under water when Gipsy Moth was heeled or else the seas swishing off the deck would run along the toerail from both fore and aft down to it, swirling into the boat with a kind of whirlpool action just like water emptying out of a bath. It was neat the forward end of the cockpit where I had emptied the first buckets of water over the side of the cockpit on to the side deck. Hell! What a joke. The water from those first bucketfuls must have mostly returned at once through the hole. It was so ridiculous that I couldn’t help laughing. But although there was enough swirling in from the water on the deck to sink Gipsy Moth, I still felt sure there was a big underwater leak.

  I remembered almost the last thing that Sid Mashford had said to me when I left Plymouth: ‘Don’t forget that if you have a leak, a piece of towelling is an excellent stopgap if you can pack something over it.’ I tore a corner off a green towel. I could not think of any suitable piece of plywood which was handy, so I cut a piece from the side of a Tupperware box. I hunted out the glass jar of tacks, stuffed a dozen into my mouth, and with a tomahawk which I kept to hand, crawled along the side deck. A stanchion had torn out, leaving the hole in the deck. I stuffed a torn-off piece of my underpants into the hole, spread my square of towelling over the top and held it there by firmly tacking down the piece of Tupperware. It wasn’t easy because the hole went right up to the toerail. Every few seconds the sea would wash over the side deck while I knelt there.

  In the afternoon I lay in my bunk, and resumed my narrative log in the notebook. Wednesday 5 May, 1500: ‘Wind 25 knots, gusting to 45 and more occasionally. Speed 5.5 knots under bare poles. I had got together all the things that I needed for leaving ship in the dinghy except four, which I did not want now because of the storage difficulty. It was hard to find anywhere to put anything except on my bunk. The four were water, lifejacket, sailing gear and spare pump for the dinghy1

  1905: ‘Wind 35 knots. Speed 6 knots. Still no sail up and won’t be for the foreseeable future till the gale is over and the sea down. I have a strong impression that the water level inboard is a little lower. So far I have removed 124 buckets two-thirds full. I would have done more this spell had it not been for pressing jobs on deck.’

  My biggest, longest sheet, which had been attached to the storm-jib, had been chafed through and washed overboard. It had then got itself wound round the steering oar several times. To free it I had to lie full length on the counter and use a boathook plus a long arm. Then I noticed that one of the self-steering tiller lines was nearly worn through and would part at any time, though I felt sure it would happen at night when it would be most difficult to deal with. Replacing it was quite a job as it passes through four blocks or pulleys and the main tiller must be kept operating while fitting the new line. ‘I cannot get at the galley for something hot to eat because of the water. It makes an incredible row with all the floorboards afloat, knocking against each other and bottles and half the yacht’s stores and gear. However, yesterday I was sure it was only a question of how long before she sank.’ This shows how my sense of time had gone haywire; the knockdown had occurred that same day.

  No. I bag (polythene)

  5 pkts biscuits

  kitchen paper roll

  2 boxes matches

  1 pr socks

  prunes/walnuts

  in Tupperware box

  7 oranges

  1 pkt Vita Wheat

  Sunglasses

  Dishcloth

  No. 2 bag (polythene)

  2 currant loaves

  5 bread rolls

  1 lemon

  lightweight woollen jersey

  1 pr long woollen underpants

  Aertex pyjama top

  [I dredged the bottom

  half out of the bilges

  much later]

  2 pkts figs

  3 dried bananas

  Handbag (spinnaker bag)

  8 oranges

  2 spoons

  1 fork

  Toiletry bag (including

  Codeine, comb, antiseptic

  ointment, etc and 1 pr

  gold cufflinks!)

  1 box wheat germ

  3 bars wholenut

  chocolate

  2 caps

  2 tin openers [1 U/S]

  1 sleeping-bag

  (in polythene bag)

  5-litre jar honey

  1 hand mirror

  (for sun-flashing)

  6 tins baked beans

  spectacles

  1 pr pliers

  1 pen

  1 pencil

  1 pkt prunes

  1 pkt almonds

  1 pkt raisins

  1 pkt dried apricots

  1 red distress flare

  Very pistol

  At two o’clock on the morning of the 6th the relative wind was 23 up to 40 knots, and Gipsy Moth was running at a speed of 3 to 5 knots with the wind on the quarter. Two or three big waves swept over the deck and poured quite a lot of water below the companion, but two and a half hours later the wind had eased to 28 knots, and while massaging my thigh and my back with arnica ointment with my left hand while I ate digestive biscuits and peanut butter with my right, I was planning to set the main stays’l first thing after daylight.

  An early job was to get to the chronometer, which I had forgotten about completely. I supposed it had stopped for want of winding, as it only runs for 56 hours.

  0835: ‘The chronometer is O. K. It records that it is only forty-four hours since I wound it. All this in less than forty-four hours! It seemes incredible. A bonanza! I found a roll of dry paper.’

  1009: ‘Well, I have done several jobs. Item 1—Raised the main stays’l. Item 2—Secured the pieces of mizen stays’l with some more ties. It looks as if it is simply that the seam sewing has given way. It wasn’t hoisted at the time but the wind got into the furl. Item 3—I noted that the starboard navigation light and its housing have carried away. Item 4—Charged the batteries to full meanwhile. Item 5—Freed the mizen topping-lift from the backstay insulator. I should be able to use the R/T now. Item 6—baled out 21½ bucketfuls of water, making a total of 145½ buckets. Water obviously lower. I had to use the small bucket at times to fill the big one. Of course I am working at the near end of the lake, which is shallower th
an the midships part. All this would be easy if it were not for the pain when moving. I am having a rest and will then try for a sun shot and then have another go at the water. If I could get rid of that and start drying things it would be a cheering step forward. I was quite dry working on the fore-deck but got a souser in the cockpit just as I was finishing. I don’t mind that except for its keeping my padded jacket wet. Now for some cold fodder. Another 4o-bucket go at the water and I reckon I could use the galley and get something hot.

  ‘I got a sun shot at 1139 and a second one at 1243 which gave me a fix at 43˚45’N 16˚25’W. Course for Plymouth 52˚, distance 651 miles. Rather a rough position due to big seas. More precision later, I hope.

  ‘Another 40½ buckets; total 186. Full ones too. Now dipping in the main cabin. I am getting a drill for it now. One learns to avoid the movements which hurt. I reckon that another 80 buckets will quieten the noise and get rid of swishing water. I have fond memories of Brighton beach but don’t want to have it in the same small room for too long. I want to raise the mizen but I am determined to mop up this water first because my supply of energy is limited at the moment.…

  ‘I baled until I had the deepest bilge empty. It has started filling again but that does not necessarily mean there is a leak. There may be a leak below the waterline, but the pockets of water lying outboard of the stringers and timbers will be finding their way to the deepest part of the hull for some time. I kept a tally and emptied 155 buckets. I measured the bucket, a two-gallon one, and reckon on average I filled it to if gallons. Total for the operation, 186 + 155 = 341. It may not sound much but carrying a full bucket 10 or 20ft in a yacht is a long way in a rough seaway.…

  ‘What changes of fortune in a man’s life. Two or three days ago I was as smug as can be with everything clean and tidy in the yacht ready for Sheila to come aboard at Plymouth. I was just reckoning the time to arrive. A few hours later I was collecting hurriedly the necessaries to keep me alive for a few weeks in a dinghy, thinking it only a matter of how long before Gipsy Moth sank. A few hours later I am still in the whole yacht, apparently undamaged below, making again for Plymouth.